


The waves beyond the sea

by i_gaze_at_scully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s01e13 Beyond the Sea, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 14:30:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17664428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_gaze_at_scully/pseuds/i_gaze_at_scully
Summary: Scully deals with the aftermath of her father's death and Mulder's shooting.





	The waves beyond the sea

Tourniquets save lives. Tourniquets keep blood in, keep life in.

 

Step one. Call for help. _Officer down._

 

Step two. Assess. No tourniquet? Make one. Find a windglass. Wood, there’s sturdy, blood stained wood. _Your blood will spill on the white cross._

 

Blank stares and ragged breath don’t save lives, Dana. _Focus_.

 

Step three. Pressure. Apply pressure, above the wound. Secure, twist, hold. _Hold_.

 

_Hold on, Mulder, please, please hold on._

 

Step four. There is no step four. You follow him to the hospital in a haze, the clinical detachment sucked right out of you. You close your eyes against the din and forget for a moment what it feels like to be warm.

 

\---

 

Boggs is dead. Your father is dead. Mulder is alive.

 

He hobbles out of the hospital and into your car. Before he gets in, you pull the seat back as far as it will go. Barely, just barely, he fits. You assume he isn’t really comfortable, but the lump in your throat declares it a moot point.  The drive back to his place is quiet, a silence so terrifying you almost stop the car right there on 495.

 

What wounds the silence tears, the dark of his apartment salves. He leans on you when you cross the threshold together. Barely, just barely, you keep the both of you upright.

 

Ahab is dead.

 

There is a puff of displaced air and the thud of Mulder’s body on the couch, accompanied by a small groan.

 

Grief has a precipice. It has a barricade that keeps the demons at bay, a temporary reprieve. But like in all things, there is a breaking point. Most often, it is unidentifiable, inconsequential. Even the toughest of walls tumble down with a puff of displaced air.

 

You sink to the floor next to the couch with your elbows propped on your knees, your hands knotted inextricably in your hair. You rock back and forth in minute motions, small whimpers escaping your lips. He’s _dead_ , (you know he’s dead, you _know._ But he can’t be. He just can’t be).

 

Mulder’s hand lands on your shoulder and you sob. He’s saying something but you can’t hear him, so you dig your fingernails into your scalp and try to squeeze the pain back in. Muscles tighten and clench and you try, God you try.

 

“Scully,” you finally hear. “Come here, come on, let go–” He deftly disentangles your fingers from your hair and the follicles scream in relief. “–come up here.”

 

You do. He pulls you into his side with a gentle ferocity. He lets you sob into his underarm as you hide from Boggs and God and the world, hide from him even as he holds you.

 

“You… you also,” you mumble, trying to convey, to emote. Some things never come out from behind those walls, because some things _are_ the walls. You try, but you fail, so you stop. He doesn’t shush you, nor does he probe. He smooths down your knotted hair, slowly, over and over.

 

Sleep beckons, your body depleted. You feel it around the corners of your eyes and in your lungs, in the leaden limbs only now coming back into your consciousness. You feel it because your eyes are too dry and your heart is too empty to be this heavy. You heave a sigh into Mulder’s shirt, breathe him back in.

 

Mulder is alive. Mulder is solid and here and alive. You bring your fingers to the crook of his elbow to prove it, to feel his pulse, steady and strong. You reach up and bring your lips to his neck, two pulse points, more proof.

 

Mulder is alive, and so are you.

 

You nip lightly at his neck as his hand freezes on the back of your head, push your fingers through his hair to send his chin skyward. Blood pounding in your ears now, heart racing, you pull yourself up out from under him, one hand on his chest to steady yourself. _Now_ is the only thought in your head, if it’s a thought at all, but a breath short of straddling him he stills you with a hand clasped over yours.

 

“My leg,” he says, holding your hand there over his heart. His mouth is agape, his eyes searching yours anxiously. Realization and disgust wash over you in a tidal wave.

 

Your head pounds now, your palms sweating as you yank them back to your body. “ _Shit.”_ _Jesus Christ, Dana, you sick fuck._  “I have to go, I’m sorry, I–” You scramble to extricate yourself from him, but he pulls you back.

 

“Scully.” Amidst your halfhearted squirms, he catches your cheeks in his wide hands, patches of rough skin on his palm anchoring you. He waits a moment, holds your gaze, rides the wave with you. “It’s okay.” He kisses your forehead. “It’s going to be okay.”

 

There is pain that demands to be felt, that refuses to budge or retreat, and that leaves you hollow and shivering. You are only just starting to know this pain. But with your eyes closed and Mulder’s lips pressed to your forehead, you grab onto the tiniest bit of warmth, and you don’t let go.   

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact in doing research for this fic I found out that medical doctor Dana Scully did not attempt a tourniquet at all and simply placed her jacket on Mulder's chest. 😂 Ah well


End file.
